


The Guy in the Stall

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Stiles, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Future Fic, Glory Hole, Knotting, M/M, Mates, Omega!Jackson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:19:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn't usually do things like this, but, hey, he's young, he's unbonded, and he just moved back in with his dad. So why not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guy in the Stall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Blue_Five](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Five/gifts).



Before this starts, let it be known that Stiles doesn’t do the whole anonymous thing, not really. Back at school, there were no clubs like the Jungle, but there were some gay bars speckled here and there, intimate little things where the guys he picked up came with faces and names that, for the most part, were real. That he could find some comfort in when he found himself shoved against alley walls or squeezed into a stall with some guy.

But this isn’t what Isaac’s offering him. Because, you see, in the back of the Jungle, in the bathroom behind the bar, there is a hole. It sits right between the only two stalls, in the partition there, and while no one really talks about it, it’s not like it was ever a secret. Not back when he was sixteen and sipping Cokes from every bartender his fake ID failed on and not now, thirteen years later, where he still gets carded.

The point is, though, there’s a hole, a hole where guys do _things_ , and, two months after Stiles moved back home, Isaac points out that he’s able to do such things.

“It’s probably different from how you remember it, you know,” Isaac shouts, leaning across the table to beat the blast of the music.

“I’ve never even seen the bathroom, dude,” Stiles points out. He’d been too chicken shit to even piss in the club back then, to be honest. He usually ended visits once his bladder protested.

Isaac quickly dismisses the comment, eager to continue. “But there’s someone, like, working it now. For whole nights.”

“For money?”

“No, just for cock, I think.”

“Oh,” Stiles says dumbly. He tries to imagine the kind of person who’d do that, just take strange cock after strange cock for hours on end. Is that really someone he’d want near his dick? He licks his lips. “Omega, you think?”

“Probably,” Isaac answers, eyes betraying his excitement in the colored strobe lights. “Because he even lets Alphas knot his mouth, I think. He just sits there and takes it and swallows it all, and it’s fucking crazy to listen to him do it, too—So I’ve heard,” he adds quickly, placing his hand on his Alpha’s.

Stiles can’t make out Scott’s face the way the dance floor lights shadow it, but he doesn’t need to when Scott laughs and laces his fingers with Isaac’s. Scott’s a blessing in that way, how he’s not all twitchy and possessive like most Alphas when Isaac goes off on shit like that. He’s just not the kind of Alpha you see balancing out Meg Ryan’s Omega charm onscreen, all tough and gruff but sweet on the inside. Scott’s just honey all ways ‘round.

Which is a relief. Stiles gets enough of that dumb Alpha posturing from the guys who take him for Omega at the bar, nodding and winking and stinking of pheromones. He still goes with them, of course, but they always jump when he gets _too_ excited and pops a knot on them.

It never stops being funny, but they never seem to buy him drinks after that.

“So are you going to do it or what?” Isaac presses.

Stiles shrugs. “It’s not my usual kind of thing.”

“Come on, dude,” Scott says with a nudge. “We have to live vicariously through you now, you know.”

Because that’s the point here. The Jungle isn’t the place for serious couples like Scott and Isaac. It’s, well, a jungle, where guys get trashed and latch onto the nearest set of twig and berries like animals in the wild. Scott and Isaac are beyond that now; they’ve done their time.

But not Stiles. He’s still in the thicket of it all, hacking his way through mesh shirts and condoms with a machete. So he downs the rest of his beer and nods, pushing away from the table. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be back, I guess.”

“Have fun! Be careful!” Scott calls out, Isaac already dragging him towards the dance floor. Stiles laughs as he pushes through the crowd because, yeah, he’s about to put his dick through some rusty-ass hole to get sucked where hundreds of other dicks have gotten sucked. Totally safe.

Once he pushes in to the bathroom, though, and clambers into the stall, he’s relieved to find that it isn’t as rusty as he thought it would be. At least not from what he could see: the edge is duct-taped silver, the hole perfect crotch height, which is another relief. Tiptoeing it didn’t sound too hot.

As he runs a curious finger along the thin brim of it, a tongue suddenly makes to greet him, the once empty hole filling up with soft, pink mouth. He jerks his hand back in reflex, because, yep, that’s definitely, definitely a mouth, which means there really is a person on the other side.

“Oh wow, um, wow,” Stiles breathes, eyes snapping away from the hole as he curls his fingers to himself. “Hi there.”

The mouth shuts behind a pair of tightly pressed lips. “Hey,” the guy answers shortly, voice rough like he doesn’t quite remember how words work, but mostly like he’s been sucking cock for the past hour. Which . . . yeah.

Okay, now, here’s the thing. There aren’t any strategy guides on the ins and outs of glory holes, no human resource division or IT service he can call. And while he’s nowhere near being the painfully horny and painfully virginal kid he’d been, he’s never done something like _this_. He’s sure there’s some etiquette that goes with it all, but there’s nothing in the stall that reads THESE ARE THE RULES in big, fancy letters.

So they fall into a tense silence. At a loss, Stiles pats a beat on his thighs to fill up empty space, trying to think of what to say.

“So, uh, how long have you been doing this?” he asks tentatively.

There’s a pause, then, “You mean tonight?”

“Uh, sure, yeah, I guess.”

“You’ll be cock number six. If you actually get it out, that is.”

“Oh,” Stiles breathes, fingers tingling. “That’s a lot of cock, dude. Not that, you know, there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, whatever floats your boat and all that, but—That’s a lot.”

“Look, are you here to fucking preach to me about life choices, or are you going to get your dick out?”

Stiles’ heart rate skyrockets. “No that’s—I mean, yeah, but—Do I just put it in?” he asks in hushed tones to the crudely scrawled dick in his direct line of sight. Again, seeing as there’s no step-by-step guide on this whole glory hole thing, he doesn’t really consider it to be a stupid question until everything goes deathly quiet save for the muffled bass from back in the club.

Then the guy snorts. “If your dick isn’t already in my mouth,” he says stiffly, “You’re wasting my time.”

“I can get it out for you. Two seconds flat,” Stiles rushes.

“Then shut up and fucking do it.” Fingers crook through the hole, into Stiles’ side of the universe. “Do it so I can taste it already.”

Stiles’ dick jumps against his hand like it can hear how the guy’s voice cracks, like he can sense how badly the guy fucking wants it. The guy moans impatiently when Stiles unzips his jeans, splits them wide so he can shove them and his boxers down his thighs, and his dick lobs free into the thick air, half-hard and eager to do its part for the cause.

“Where _is_ it, man?”

Stiles licks his lips. “Hey, a little patience there, guy. You’ll scare it off.”

He catches the guy’s snort and laughs himself, jacking himself once, twice, three times before he makes the two-second decision.

It feels a little dumb at first, getting close and personal with the dick graffiti just so he can stick his dick in a hole—even dumber when his knees hit the partition and he has to grab the top edge of the stall for support—but then he’s _there_ , pushing his dick through, and none of it really matters. Not when a damp mouth closes around the head of his cock.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles breathes, tightening his grip.

A soft hum answers him, the sound vibrating over his cock as the guy gobbles down every inch Stiles feeds him until he has no more inches left. Just like that, the only part that really matters, the only part that still feels attached to his body, is on the guy’s side of the partition, in that side of universe where his cock rubs up against the ridged roof of some stranger’s mouth in its descent deeper, into his throat. And everything about it is amazing, absolutely fucking insane, but _amazing_ , and his nervousness quickly gives in to tingling excitement in the pit of his stomach.

 _But you’re number six_ , he reminds himself before he starts thinking wild things like how he needs this mouth in his life. Best to keep himself grounded. _You’re just a number and a cock to him._

And that’s when it starts.

It’s small at first, just a tiny infant of a thought—no, no, it’s a word, definitely a word, and one that’s trying to have itself said. It’s a bit like Wheel of Fortune in a way, one word on the board, four letters, but not a single clue to be found.

Just when he figures he might as well start guessing letters, there’s this tiny gagging noise, the flutter of throat, and the thought rockets away as the guy pulls off his dick with a swallow. Stiles’ cock bobs free, polished with saliva and cold at the loss. He tries to imagine it, tries to see in his mind’s eye that pretty pink mouth from before already wet and sloppy with spit, maybe the thicker beginnings of precum, and he groans, low and soft.

The mouth doesn’t come back right away, though. He can feel it, hot breath ghosting over the head of his cock, but it’s not _on_ him.

“Shit, dude, come on,” Stiles breathes. He pushes himself as close to the stall as he can, until his pubic bone is flush with the duct-taped edge of the hole, and he moves a hand to hitch up his shirt, trace careless patterns over his stomach. “Come on, man, you’re not going to just leave it like that, right? I mean, I need you. Fuck, I _need_ you,” he adds in a desperate whisper.

There’s a strange stillness from the other side and, for a moment, Stiles fears that the guy’s run off without him knowing somehow. But then sweaty fingers curl around the base and tilt his cock up so a tongue can trail a warm path up the length. Stiles moans appreciatively as the guy sucks a kiss to the ridge of the fleshy head.

“Want you to fuck my mouth,” the guy pants against him, voice hoarser than when they started. “Want you to fuck my face.”

“I can do that. I can fucking do that,” Stiles says quickly. “Give me the chance, and I’ll fucking do that for you, man.”

“Good.”

The guy presses another kiss to his slit before he takes Stiles into his mouth again. It feels wetter than before, hotter somehow, and the guy’s tongue lies flat and soft under Stiles’ cock, the slide of it luxurious when he slowly draws his hips back. And it’s even better when he grinds forward again, fucks his way into the guy’s mouth. He goes slow at first, thighs shaking from the strain and his insides feel like Jell-O, but then he hears it, that first _uck_ of him dipping into the guy’s throat, and his hips pick up the pace on their own until they’re knocking against the partition just so he can hear it again.

And the guy doesn’t disappoint.

Stiles drops his head to the wall, groans. “Fuck, you’re so good,” he grits. “Oh fuck, you’re perfect, man.”

The answer comes in a rumble over his length, the sweetest gag, and that’s when it happens again, that quiet little thought creeping back to the forefront. There are new letters on the board now, the vowels he thinks, but it’s still too vague for Stiles to make sense of it.

“I just wanna take you home with me, guy. Like, I just want to keep you and that fucking mouth of yours all to myself. I mean, I just—fuck—” There’s a wet sound and his stomach clenches at how that jerk of gag reflex feels on the head of his dick. “I’ll be so good to you, baby. I’ll—I’ll fucking knot you every night and—shit, don’t go!”

He thrusts forward but meets air. He racks his brain for anything, everything, tries to figure out what left his mouth when his brain had been otherwise occupied. And then he stops.

“I didn’t mean that,” Stiles says, nervous sweat chilling the back of his neck. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“Are you gonna come?”

“What?”

“Are. You. Going to. Come?”

Stiles feels his dick jump, bites his lip. “ _Yeah_.” He’d been _right there_ , he realizes.

“Good,” the guy says, just as ambiguously as he had before, and the fact Stiles can’t read the tone, for a second, is unsettling. But it’s only for that single second before the guy gets a hand on him with a firm stroke and his cockhead finds that glorious tongue again. “Come in my mouth.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. A few strokes, a slurp, and he’s there, his balls drawing up so tight they ache as he prepares to come, come harder than he has in a long while. And when it happens, it punches a wounded sound from him, a grunt with every subsequent jerk and spurt, and Stiles bangs his head against the stall wall just to take the edge off. He’s only mildly surprised to find he’s knotted, the guy’s lips sucking at the blood-swollen flesh.

The thought returns then, slams into the brain at full-force, because it’s complete now and ready to be to realized. And when it comes to Stiles, everything suddenly makes sense.

And the implications are terrifying.

“Holy _shit_.”

A laugh. “Good?” the guy says for a third time, but this time around Stiles can hear the cocky lilt in it. This time he appreciates it more.

Stiles pulls back and quickly puts himself away, fingers scrambling. “Yeah, _yeah_ , that was fucking—Yeah.” He combs his fingers through his hair. “I mean, yeah, your mouth is—I mean, it’s fucking—”

“Thanks. I’ve had practice.” It’s casual, a little dismissive.

Right. He’s number six tonight. And who knows how many he’s had before him. Or how many he’ll have after.

The reminder stings it a bit.

“I should go,” Stiles says a little hollowly after a second, because, yeah, he needs to go, really needs to go, like, now, or else he won’t be able to leave at all. “Thanks,” he adds as he unlocks the stall door.

He barely manages to step out before the stall beside him slams open, too, and he’s suddenly face-to-face with _him_ , the guy in the stall. He freezes.

It’s funny, because it’s a face he hasn’t seen for, what, ten years or so? Yet, he recognizes it without hesitation, like he’s seen it every single day since then, like it’s never changed though it definitely has. To him, at least.

Because it’s ruddy and wet with—with a lot of things, he thinks, and suddenly everything smells like Omega slick, which—if it really is him—is news to him.

“Jackson,” he says slowly, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans.

And Jackson nods, looking just as dumbfounded as Stiles feels. “Stilinski?” he asks unnecessarily, but Stiles nods all the same.

You know, this isn’t how he imagined this going. He’d always imagined it would something more romantic, something more romantic comedy-esque, like how his mom and dad met. He’d been the slightly stuffy traffic officer just trying to make his quota and his mom had been the spunky Omega who sped past him on her way to work. Stiles had always wanted something like that, some cute little story he could tell his kids later, sitting with his arm wrapped around his mate, their fingers locked.

But instead he’s standing in the bathroom of a gay club that smells a lot more like piss and slick than he realized, and that mate he’d always imagined, the one who’d smile indulgently at him and kiss his cheeks so their kids would bemoan how gross they were, is Jackson fucking Whittemore.

“You felt it, too, didn’t you?” Stiles ventures.

Jackson begins to nod, then abruptly stops, forces himself to say, hoarse and nearly unrecognizable from their high school days, “Yeah.”

They stay like that for a long moment, managing to look at each other without really making eye contact for longer than a split second. Christ, though, Jackson looks so good right now. The dark shirt he wears is tight, nearly as tight as his skinnies, he thinks, and just wants to step up and settle his hands on Jackson’s waist, to anchor Jackson in place so he can claim him like any Alpha should claim a wet Omega, his mate.

“So what do we do with this?” Stiles asks finally.

Jackson rubs his neck and he glances away. “You offered to take me home. We can start there, I think.”

Stiles’ chest flutters. “Did I say that?”

“Yeah.” Jackson’s lips quirk into a smirk. “You also said you’d knot me.”

“Oh naw, now I _couldn’t_ have said that,” Stiles breathes, smiling a bit himself. “Unless you’re planning on taking me up on the offer, than I definitely, definitely did.”

They’re close now, not nearly nose to nose, but enough to make kissing Jackson’s lips—those pretty pink lips he’d seen through the glory hole—seem like a legitimate option. And, actually, it is now. Stiles clutches Jackson’s shoulders, but Jackson stops him before he can get too close and seal the deal.

“Is McCall here?”

“What?”

“You’re here with McCall, aren’t you?”

Stiles stares, nods. “Yeah, of course.”

Jackson bites his lip. “We’ll have to leave separately, then.”

“ _What_?”

“The bathroom, jackass,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes. “You leave first, and I’ll leave after.”

“You’re joking,” Stiles laughs. “There’re, like, a hundred guys out there. No one’s going to noti—.”

“Do you wanna knot me?”

Stiles’ blood runs cold.

“I _said_ do you—”

“Whose car do you want to take?”

Stiles falls a little bit in love with the smile that spread across Jackson’s face. “Yours will do. Now go.” Jackson pushes Stiles towards the door.

Stiles doesn’t realize until he’s out into the flashing lights again, the air nasty and humid with the blasting music only making it worse. But even the headache beginning to brew behind his eye does nothing to stop the giddy skip in his step as he runs back over to the table to tell Scott he’s skipping out on him and Isaac. The details aren’t necessary, but he figures there’s a time for everything and the time for that’s not now.

It’s a story for another time, but it’s a chapter he thinks he’ll clip-out whenever those future grandkids come along.


End file.
